Ken Roberts
Sports Columnist
It just lies there.
Against its green background (though often it has a wheat or dirt-brown backgroud for me), its whiteness (or lately pink for me) stands out in stark contrast. It doesn?t attempt to move or deceive the person holding the metal stick. Nonetheless, it is elusive.
Don?t let its dimpled countenance fool you. It is a mean-spirited object that ends up making me as tightly wound as it is after several hours of trying to flog it into submission and forcing it to go places it obviously has no desire to be.
Yes, flog. Many call it by its name spelled backward.
I?m a very stupid man. Each year, I have high hopes of developing ?the? swing . . . and I have a great swing. Just ask coach Tom Horn. Memorial Day and and a trip to Tokatee.
My friends and their various attempts to distract me from ever succeeding. The voice of reason telling me to set aside this sport and try bingo tournaments is drowned out by the voice of the devil, shouting out that the golf course can be mine for my soul. (For an apt comparison, think Hannity raising his voice to interrupt his guests.)
Three months later, I have been shamed into restoring my clubs to their rightful place: the closet.
The sad thing is that, at one time, I used to be a sub-bogey golfer. Recent playing partners could never know this, but it is verifiable. Is this what happens when you get older? I don?t think so because I just witnessed a bunch of senior golfers consistently drive the ball long and straight down the middle and then loft it onto the green in regulation. Following that, they cozied their ball right up or into the hole. Seldom did the routine vary.
Of course, they were professionals playing in the Jeld-Wen tournament, a major event on the Senior PGA. They were calm (for the most part) and collected. There weren?t any displays of self-adulation like we often see in other professional sports. Just pros in every sense of the word, competing the way competition was meant to be.
Big names like Tom Watson and Hale Irwin, saying thank you as they walked to the next hole when they were congratulated on a well-played shot. Talented players on the regular tour like Gil Morgan and Loren Roberts, next to whom I stood as he managed to negotiate a shot from that rare moment in the trees safely up the fairway 120 yards. (Why is it that I will send my ball directly into the nearest obstacle no matter where I aim?)
Players like Dana Quigley, the current leader on the Senior Tour, and John Jacobs, both affable cigar smokers who had undistinguished careers until they reached their 50s. And even some players like a Walter Hall or Tom Wargo, who never qualified for an event on the regular tour. Superb all.
But not always. A roly poly Bob Murphy strolls along using his fingers to recall his shots. One in the woods, two in the water, three in the sand . . . you have to love a guy like that.
Rocky Thompson, on his way to carding an 82, reacted to a fan who clapped after he sank his bogey putt on the 17th hole by saying, ?You liked it so much, here!? Then he tossed the ball underhanded to the fan, but with a certain velocity, to let him know it wasn?t a gift out of kindness.
And John Jacobs, on a slow stroll up the 17th fairway suitable for a player whose score was not in contention for a championship, acknowledged a fan?s pleasure with his shot onto the green.
?Just wanted to put it in the middle of the green,? confided Jacobs. ?Nothing you couldn?t do.?
?Maybe in 10 shots,? returned the fan.
?How about three beers and one shot,? Jacobs suggested.
I would like to relax that much. It isn?t as if I?m competing for a championship. I?m with my friends, though I use that term loosely, considering the amount of abuse that is vocalized during the round.
I?m relaxed now because the clubs are stored safely. It is September; it is time for me to once again become a high school sports fan. I have been declared temporarily sane. But, when the last Monday in May arrives again, I will become a very stupid man once more.